


Open Hand or Closed Fist

by Lolymoon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Bad Romance, F/F, Operation Mongoose, POV Second Person, Snow Queen Week, bandit!regina, evil!Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:39:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolymoon/pseuds/Lolymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An exploration of the story that could have been between the AU versions of Regina and Snow in the season 4 finale.</p><p> <br/>  <em>The touch makes you blush and shiver, grit your teeth and yelp against the sweetness. But she, the flying girl that fell like a shooting star, the smile that burns, the daughter of King, she doesn't let go. </em><br/><em>"You will come back with me to the palace. You will come back with me. Say you will. I want you."</em><br/><em>She smiles, so, so beautiful, and she pets you, hands so, so gentle, and you nod, oblivious of the snare tightening around your neck.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Hand or Closed Fist

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Snow Queen Week - day 5 (Role Reversal)
> 
> Title from the song Cherry Wine by Hozier (very much a snow queen song)
> 
>  
> 
> _Her fight and fury is fiery_  
>  Oh but she loves  
> Like sleep to the freezing  
> Sweet and right and merciful  
> I'm all but washed  
> In the tide of her breathing
> 
>  
> 
> _The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine_  
>  Open hand or closed fist would be fine  
> The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine

You think back –

  
You see the tall dark trees and the fresh green leaves licked by rain.  
You see the wolf friends with all their smiling teeth.  
You see the scowling man with hands both soft and hard.  
You see a den in the rocks that had the smell of home.

  
You think back.

  
You don't remember.

  
You can't remember in the forest. Forest doesn't have memories. Forest doesn't have a past. Forest is. Always.

You can't remember but you can learn. Lessons. Experiences. Never to poke the hedgehog. Never to touch the human ropes. Which mushrooms you eat, which wood won't make smoke, you can always get fish, don't trust the fireflies.

You can't remember but you hold the Forest within you.

  
.

  
Graham doesn't like to be called Graham. You don't know why he's taken you in. You don't know why he didn't kill you when he found you, a wailing babe, all red and starved, nothing but a burden, not meant to live at all. You don't know why. Maybe it's the same reason why he cries over dead animals. Maybe because he's weak.

You don't want to be weak like that.

If something has to be killed, then it must. You take no pleasure in the kill, but no guilt either. You need to eat. You need to grow-up. Someone has decided that you had to live, and there's a price to pay for all living creatures on earth.

  
You didn't ask to be born.

  
.

  
You like humans. You don't see much of them, but you often go to the villages nearby. An easy target for mockery and taunting from your young peers, but it doesn't hurt you. You're curious. The adults are nicer to you (except when you steal, but you never steal twice from the same man and you get caught less and less – you learn). You like the villages, the crowd. You don't like to be in it but you like to watch. The colors. The sounds. The smells. The voices. You like voices. You don't hear enough of them in the Forest. Forest has sounds, but no voices. You crave for human songs and stories.

 

.

 

Graham isn't kind (what is kind?), he is not your father. But he helps you. He protects you. He teaches you how to hunt, how to fight. You like him. You like cuddling by his side around the fire, watching him skin his freshest kill, Friend Wolf's head warming your feet. You like Graham's strong, musky scent. You like how his hands stroking your hair can chase the nightmares away sometimes (even if they can slap so hard you see stars). You like his sullen silence and his soft growling soothing you to sleep. But you don't like his tears, his faraway look. He says the wolves are his family, but the wolves avoid him, they don't recognize him as their own anymore, save for Friend Wolf, the loner. You're more of a wolf than he is. You've never felt the taste of your own tears. You don't like the shade of deep, deep sadness in his eyes (sadness is a quicksand that drowns).

Skinless. He likes to say it's his wolf name, but wolves don't give names, wolves give places, a pack, home, the names always come from the Forest, whispered in your ear by the messenger wind in the dead of the night.

Yours is Squirrel.

You're insignificant. You don't mind it.

 

.

 

The first time you meet her she falls off her horse.

You see her, bolting through the fields while you're plucking berries under the sun, and she's a shudder of lightning burning the fat wet grass, a stain of pure white in a world of green.

You see the fall and you hear the scream and then she's still and quiet, and you think death.

You come looking, curiosity always getting the best of you, and you can hear her breathing as you kneel down next to her, but you're too busy staring to listen.

She's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. More beautiful than the silver fish in the river, more beautiful than the flames at night, more beautiful than the stormy sky.

She frightens you so much with her snow-white skin and her ocean of black hair and her red, parted lips, you plunge your hands in the lush earth to ground you.

She whimpers, and the noise startles you, makes you gasp in disbelief at such a small, defenseless sound.

It's like it's begging to be killed.

Then you notice the blood leaking on the rock on which lies her head.

 

You take her in your arms.

 

.

 

She's smiling when she awakes, muted green eyes seeking yours avidly, sparkling with life and awe.

“You saved me,” she murmurs in worship, and you shift on your feet, uneasy and shy, unused to someone looking at you with wonder. And then she laughs, and you like that sound less than the one her smile had made.

"But how could you not? I'm the King's daughter."

Her words find no echo in you, and she gapes at your ignorance.

"You don't know what a King is?"

"Chief wolf?"

Your voice is rough and hoarse, mistreated by silence and years of mute watching. With Graham, you barely exchange ten words out of every evening. She laughs again, and moans, rubbing her forehead with a shaking hand, her lips are parched and dry. You unfasten the goatskin filled with water hanging by your hip, bring it to her mouth. She takes a dainty gulp, then makes you drop it to the ground, and you're too wary of her smiling lips and excited eyes to look away and retrieve it. She takes your hand, brings it to her mouth, talks to it with her lips. Soft whispers that carve mocking words on your skin. _My little savage girl_. The touch makes you blush and shiver, grit your teeth and yelp against the sweetness. But she, the flying girl that fell like a shooting star, the smile that burns, the daughter of Kings, she doesn't let go.

"You will come back with me to the palace. You will come back with me. Say you will. I want you."

She smiles, so, so beautiful, and she pets you, hands so, so gentle, and you nod, oblivious of the snare tightening around your neck.

"What is your name, wolf-girl?"

"Squirrel."

She snorts and she hiccups and smacks a sloppy kiss against your palm.

"Oh but that won't do! That won't do at all. Don't worry. We'll find you a name."

She winds her arms around your neck, brings you closer to her face so she can murmur in your ear, "I'm Snow. Snow White."

The trap closes on you with a blink of her lashes on your cheek.

 

.

 

"You are going with the Princess."

He's not looking at you, your father-not-father, the wolf-not-wolf, and he's angry, dark anger, sad anger, but you will go. You will go, because of her adoring eyes, because of the taunting laugh, because of feather kisses on your skin, because there are stars twinkling at the corner of her mouth.

You will go, because you are young and stupid and blinded and in love without even knowing what love is.

You will go, and you will regret it.

"She'll be your downfall that one. You'll both destroy each other."

You kiss him on the cheek because you have no words of peace or solace for him.  
Because you hear the truth in his words but the lies hold more power for you heart.

"I always knew you would leave me one day. Curious little Squirrel."

He holds you – hugs you – and he smells like home and family and Forest in a way he never has before and you might never see him again, you might, so you say, "I'll come back," and he laughs.

"Your place is here. We'll wait for you."

His kindness is deceptive like dreams.

 

You set yourself free from his arms and from your childhood and from the woods. You climb on Snow's horse and she settles behind you – you've never ridden a horse before but she's too afraid to take the reins, she says – and her arms lock around your waist, her breath is hot on your neck, you're flying –

You're flying straight to your cage with eager, aroused wings.

 

.

 

The Court is scandalized by the dirty wolf-girl who barely speaks and growls too much. By her bold eyes and blunt nails and sharp words. Snow adores you. You're her favorite distraction and her darling pet, the doll she loves to teach and mold to her tastes. You resist everything except her touch. Your submission to her hand and her smile makes her high on power and pride. The King tolerates you. He dotes on his only daughter so much he will makes every concession in regards to the person who saved Snow's life. Even if she's barely considered a person by most of the kingdom. He'll let you be his sole heir's companion without blinking an eye.

You learn fast. The words that were unknown to you melt quickly on your tongue and you taste them all. Your little mistress delights in your mastering of sarcasm. There is not a head in the entire realm that doesn't fall under your sharp tongue. The deceits of the royal court, the lies and the schemes hold no secrets to you. You become familiar with the whole intricate machinery, and you're feared by most for the truths you have on them.

Snow wants you to be able to defend her, to slay her enemies and fight for her life. You learn to use a bow, to draw a sword, to ride a horse. You are used to pain and blows, so your tuition goes smoother than most.

You've passed fourteen winters. That's how you count your years in the Forest, fourteen winters without dying. Four years after you met a twelve-year-old Snow and began to live the royal life, you've become a perfect little knight. Snow parades you around like a fancy toy, and her fondness and pride start to feel cloying. The collars around your neck make you feel the leash wrapped around her wrist. The glass of the windows lies about freedom and endless sky you can never reach. The fingers Snow brushes over your face at night are heavy like prison bars.

 

You ache for a sunrise, a cold rain, a night bird, and a wolf's cry.

You ache for home and you understand that you've made a mistake.

 

She feels you retreating. She feels you shrink and escape in your mind, gaze away, over her head, like she's invisible, and fear and anguish grip her at the throat at the thought of you going away.

She forbids your long rides in the forest, your lone walks in the gardens at night, she slaps your face when you look at the window for too long.

She falls on her knees and begs for your forgiveness after every cruel act. But she can never stop.

 

And you are never free.

 

One day you are whimpering at the foot of her bed, locked up in the dark after you arrived late for Snow's piano lessons.

You don't know how to cry so you don't, but you whimper like the cubs the hunters catch in the steel traps.

You don't mind the dark and the loneliness – those are soothing friends.

You howl against the key that is always out of reach, for the lock that weighs on your back and eats at your soul.

 

You don't even hear her come into the room.

 

"I have a surprise for your birthday."

 

Her voice is sheepish and shrill, acting blissful, sounding guilty. You don't turn towards her and your body is stiff with barely suppressed rage.

"I was thrown into a little basket when I was a baby and sent off for the wolves to eat. I don't have a birthday, I never did."

"Of course you do, silly! The birthday of the day we met."

You shiver at the memory that fills you with longing and regrets. You sigh as her fingers rub against your scalp, run through your long black hair, then stroke down your spine.

"I want us to do something special today," she whispers, and her voice has never sounded like this, and when she kisses your mouth, her touch has never burned so fierce.

 

She kissed you before, child's kisses, light and carefree and blunt.

This one is different. Slow and deep and starved.

She wants you. She wants you like she's never did before. Not like someone who wants to own you, but like someone who will die if you don't give in, if her desire is left unfulfilled.

 

You've never had any power until now.

 

You moan into her mouth and let her body crash down upon yours, and the wolf, the beast, the wild becomes alive once again under your skin, and you make her scream and weep, laugh and sigh, beg and swoon. And when it's over and she's the one hovering above you with clouded eyes and quaking limbs, you open yourself to the sullied love she holds for you that will never get better than both of you hurting in turns, and she thrusts her fingers so deep within you, you think she's touched your soul.

 

"I've found a name for you," she whispers between your thighs, licking softly at the pink swollen flesh that makes you cry out with stuttering pleasure. "This is my birthday gift. I name you Regina. My queen."

She wraps her lips around you and you sob loudly without tears as the world behind your eyelids becomes white and gold.

 

.

 

It lasts a few months. A few months of hushed laughter and secret looks, of rough love-making and hurried kisses, a few months of feeling strong and invincible, a few months of thinking yourself better than those fools, a few months of believing though knowing better.

 

And then Snow turns sixteen and she's betrothed to James.

The only heir of a neighbor kingdom with a reputation of aimless cruelty and unholy desires. 

You don't think much of it at first and neither does she.  
Until she goes for a courtesy call one day and leaves you behind ("you'll be bored to death there, and they don't allow dogs inside the castle. Oh, no, don't make that face, my sweet Regina, I was only jesting!")

 

When she comes back, with him, a few weeks later, she's already changed.

Or she's finally _become_.

She's finally revealed herself for who she really is.

She is colder, meaner.

James encourages her cruel impulses.

They are of one dark mind, one blackened heart.

They are of one hate.

 

You are pushed to the side, broken toy she doesn't want to play with any longer, except for lazy petting, thoughtless fondling that leave you unsatisfied.

You should have killed when she asked you to. You should have laughed when she scared you. You should have loved her when she made you hurt (you did, that one, you did, and it didn't stop the hurt, and it didn't bring you _her_ love).

 

James likes you. He likes your disdain, he likes your spirit, the words you use to pin him down, the contemptuous brush of your skirt as your whirl past him, the arrow you shoot that _accidentally_ grazes his cheek.

 

He kisses you one day, while Snow is watching. He's hard, his mouth his hard, his hands are hard, his cock is hard against your thigh. But Snow is soft and warm when she wraps herself around you from behind, holds you tight against her chest, nibbles tenderly on your ear. She's wanting you again because he wants you, she wants both of you because she's always been spoiled, greedy, selfish. She wants everything, and she has it that night, murmuring sweet nothings into your ear, moaning encouragements at James as he takes you right under her nose, and you feel yourself dissolving, your mind splitting up under the strain of conflicting desires, and these insane games humans play, but you give in, because your childhood is a blur, because Forest is far away, because you have a craving for being wanted, even if you're being used at the same time.

 

.

 

The King will die tonight.

 

The knowledge suffocates you.

The secret, you've heard it as you walked through the hidden corridors leading from Snow's chambers to the stables.

You know every nook and cranny of the castle. Like a ghost, you can wander unseen, unheard, through walls and rooms, through intimate scenes and forbidden tableaux.

This time, you've stepped into the wrong place, you've stumbled into the wrong story you're not supposed to be a character of.

You've heard them, James and two unfamiliar voices, plan the act in the dead of night. A well-thought plan. One they will get away with. One that will get him the throne.

You close your fists and let the nails you wish were claws dig into your skin.

You don't know what to do.

 

You don't like the King. Since you've grown, since your body began to assume curves and round shapes men are so fond of, his benevolent, slightly condescending attention towards you turned into a barely concealed leer. You've had to escape more than one wandering hand.

You don't like the King. You don't like how he never stands up to Snow's whims, how he lets her grow wild and unrestricted, how oblivious he is to her darkness.

You don't like the King, his weakness, the old age that turns him into a fool, his lack of commanding skills, his raucous expenses.

 

Does he deserve to die?

 

You think about Snow's fierce love and childish attachment, about her selfishness that doesn't allow any loved one to go away. You think about her ruined eyes when she told you about her mother's death. You think of her pleading voice as she caught you with a bag on your shoulder in the middle of the night, standing over the castle's walls, about to disappear from a life that's slowly destroying you. You think about the milky tears that will leak on her unblemished cheeks as she'll see the gaping wound on her father's chest.

You love her too much still for her to be hurt this way.

But you know she won't believe you.

You tell Johanna, Snow's nanny and the deceased queen's chambermaid.

As she goes to the King under the cover of the night, you know you've sealed more than one fate tonight.

 

.

 

She comes into your chambers, face ruined and hair tangled, unkempt, in a nightgown that's torn at the shoulders and waist, showing more skin than it should. In the courtyard, the kingdom has gathered, and James is sent barefoot to his death.

 

"You filthy piece of shit."

"Snow..."

"How could you? How could you do this to me? Ungrateful brat."

"He was going to kill your father!"

"ON MY ORDERS!"

 

She slaps you in the face, it stuns you like a punch, like her words, you wobble on your feet, a hand on your mouth.

"What?"

She's breathing hard, her teeth bared, she looks like no animal you ever crossed path with, but she doesn't look human either. She looks mad, unhinged. Dangerous.

"Do you think I was going to wait ten more years for that old carcass to die a peaceful death? That thoughtless pig that couldn't even bother to be here at my mother's funeral? That was leering at you as if you were his and not _mine_? That was denying me my birth right by his mere existence?"

 

You're falling, spiraling down the hatred she's throwing at you, down the void in her heart you never guessed so deep, lost in the true colors of hers you never thought so dark. She grabs you by the hair and throws you to the ground, kicks you in the ribs like one does a rogue dog.

  
"Snow, I didn't know... I didn't think..."

  
"Of course you didn't. There isn't a single intelligent thought in your head, _my little savage girl_. You are worth the wolves and humus you spent your wretched childhood with. I should have never brought you here."

  
She kneels down before you and holds your face in her hands with a frightening care, her eyes welling up with fat tears, she strokes your cheek with shaking thumbs.

"You cost me my true love... My James... the most beautiful, darkest part of myself..."

She brings her forehead to yours, and you both listen in silence, breathing each other's air, as the steel sings behind the windows, as the executioner's sword falls on a neck, as a head rolls on the ground. As James dies.

 

Snow whimpers, sobs and breaks, and the nail of her thumb dig into your skin, right above your mouth, it slashes the skin open, splits the lip, sends a rush of blood spilling down your chin.

She whispers into your ear, a lover's last promise.

"I will have your head too, Regina."

She lets you go, stumbles out of the room with dying shrieks, and you hear the lock clicks behind her.

The crack in your soul splits further. You don't know if you can reach for the other part of you anymore. You're not a whole. You're a half.

 

You stay on the ground.

 

.

 

You escape the palace too easily. So easily you wonder how come you've never done it before.

But you know, now, that not all cages are made of bars and walls.

You escape in the grey hours before dawn, and you don't have a look back for the place that was never your home that you lived in for six years.

You don't need to look back to know the memories will crush your spine with leaden feet for the rest of your life.

 

.

 

You reach the Forest, and it reeks of Death. The smell of blood welcomes you home. You stare at the wolves' pelts, wasting away, left for the crows to eat, a butchery with no value and no meaning. A human death. A senseless death.

You already know what you're going to find as you reach the hut that has watched over your childhood's dreams.

Graham is resting by the door, his chin dropping on his chest, five arrows jutting out of his body, like the pricks of a porcupine.

He's waited for you to come home, but you're the one who's late.

There are snowbells, darkened with blood, filling his open hands.

You hear Snow's laughter in your ear.

You drop on your knees in front of him, and you cry.

You've never cried before.

You're not a wolf anymore.

You're not a girl.

You don't know what you are.

You just know that you hurt.

 

.

 

You go back to the Forest, though you don't belong, you don't fit as well as before, the trees are snug around you and the air is too thick for your moribund lungs. But it's the only place big enough to harbor your grief. You lose yourself in the woods, far away from the place where you grew up, far away from the palace.

 

At night, you dream of a giddy smile and mischievous green eyes and silky dark hair wrapping around you like a soft blanket until it turns to choking vines.

You never forgive yourself and you can't let go.

You forget about living and you settle for surviving.

Your soul shrivels and dries inside.

 

_You lost her._

 

.

 

One day, you meet a young boy.

 

He shines a solid light that makes him feel more real than any person you've encountered in your life, and speaks of words that hold little to no meaning to you anymore, words like _mother_ , and _love_ , and _happiness_ , and _hope_.

You feel that thrill of wonder you've felt once before when you saved a little girl that fell off a spooked horse.

You're terrified and you push him away.

You talk about the queen that wants you dead, about her thirst for revenge, about how she aches to punish you for ruining her life.

He asks a single question.

 

“Did you?”

 

You think back –

  
You see a girl that was a waterfall that was a snake that was a sun that was your first love.  
You see your haunted face gazing at you through the mirror of a bleak castle.  
You see her selfish hand as she slid her fingers between your lips.  
You see her open mouth pouring love and hatred all the same.

  
You think about failing words that could never convey a world of love and hurt and betrayal.

You think back.

You answer regardless.

 

“Yes.”


End file.
